


In Love With Your Carnage

by PseudoLeigha



Series: The Reasons Mary Potter Still Isn't Done (Works in Progress) [4]
Category: 10 Things I Hate About You (1999), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bellatrix|Kat, Death Eater Version of Ten Things I Hate About You, F/F, F/M, Lucius|Joey, Narcissa|Bianca, Nobody wanted this. I did it anyway. Sorry not sorry., Regulus|Cameron, Voldemort|Patrick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoLeigha/pseuds/PseudoLeigha
Summary: The Ten Things I Hate About You/Harry Potter crossover you never knew you wanted. Okay. That nobody actually wanted. But it exists anyway. Deal with it.Also: This fic contains smut! Bella Black/Bella Zabini. Chapter three kind of hints at it; chapter five is much more explicit. So, yeah... NSFW. Consider yourselves warned.Basically, this is an AU of Coming of Age in the House of Black.Abraxas Malfoy returned to France after the end of Grindelwald's war, rather than continue to pursue a seat on the British Wizengamot. This has far-reaching effects for the Death Eaters.Tom instead sought entry to Magical British society through the Rosiers. As such, he has a slightly different circle of contacts – one that never grew to include Cygnus Black because of Druella's falling-out with him over the birth of Narcissa. He never met the young Bellatrix, though he does know of her.





	1. Love at First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Without Bellatrix involved, the Death Eaters do not escalate the war as quickly. Things are still simmering under the surface in 1975, and raids have become more common since Bartemius Crouch took over as the Head of the DMLE, but they have not yet broken into open warfare. Bella has not killed off all the cadet lines of her House, so there are other Blacks around. She did kill Cygnus, at almost the same time, for the same reason, though not by the same method.
> 
> Due to politics within the House of Black, Arcturus and Walburga do not pressure Sirius or Regulus to join the Death Eaters. Sirius is on slightly better terms with his family, and therefore gave Arcturus an ultimatum when he turned fifteen: let him withdraw from the family and live with the Potters, or he will break the Covenant (instead of just breaking the Covenant outright). Lily Evans was never born in this AU, but one of his surviving cousins has pointed out his obsession with James in her place, and in any case, this is not their story.
> 
> Regulus has been the Heir since Sirius moved out, just over a year prior to the beginning of the story. Andromeda still disowned herself to be with Tonks five years prior, and they still ran away to Canada, because Bellatrix is still insane, even if she doesn't have the resources of the Death Eaters behind her. Narcissa is the protected and pampered princess of the House – which she hates.
> 
> Without the Dark Lord backing her, Arcturus has slightly more control of Bellatrix. He cannot force her to do anything, but he can prohibit her from doing certain things with the family magic, like murdering him. The two of them butt heads frequently, and exist in a state of constant conflict on most issues. Bellatrix's marriage has become a symbol of their struggle for power within the House. Arcturus wants nothing more than to marry her out and make her Somebody Else's Problem. Bellatrix considers him a failure as a patriarch, and wants him to step down, but, failing that, she will settle for making his life a misery and working around him to ensure her sister and younger cousins are kept safe, and the House of Black remains successful, despite Arcturus' neglect.
> 
> Abraxas Malfoy, as he is not allied with Tom, is still living in France. (In Coming of Age in the House of Black, he was discretely killed after Lucius started school, as part of Tom's crusade to cut the ties between his original identity and Lord Voldemort.) Lucius moves to England after graduating from Beauxbatons to distance himself from his father and make a name for himself.
> 
> (And yes, that title is a trope name. What of it?)

Yule, 1976

"That's Draco and Caroline Rosier. Their daughter Eleanor is making her debut tonight with Draco Black, over there – they were promised in the cradle.

"That's my cousin Cassius Lestrange – we should go say hello to him, he was just promoted – assistant to the Head of the Department of Transportation.

"Oh! That's Isabella Despereaux, though I hear she's changing it back to Zabini – widowed last year, only twenty-five. Terrible thing, apparently he tried mixing a Sober Up and a Hangover Cure, and drowned in the bath. I hear she's on the lookout for a replacement. Can't say I'd mind…"

Lucius perked up a bit at the mention of a scandal, a break Rabastan Lestrange's otherwise monotonous identification of people he would be advised to meet. Despereaux, or Zabini, whatever her name was, was dressed in crimson and the looks she was giving passing gentlemen were hardly decorous. Whichever one of them she settled on at the end of the night would be a lucky man, he was sure, but she wasn't really his type. She whispered something to the sharp-faced, black-haired witch beside her, with a small nod toward one of the nearby young couples, and her companion smirked.

"Who are they?" he asked, indicating the same couple.

"Polaris and Narcissa Black. He's from one of the cadet branches. She's a first cousin to the Heir. Poor thing is always escorted by family."

Polaris Black was nothing special, but Narcissa, no older than fifteen or sixteen, was beautiful. There was something ethereal about her, like a fae princess come to earth. She wore white, neck and wrists glittering with diamonds, her clear blue eyes and perfectly coifed blonde hair giving an overall impression of an ice-sculpture come to life. Ephemeral perfection. _Much_ more to his taste than the fiery Italian who was still watching her spin with unnatural grace and precision.

"Why is that?" he asked absently, addressing his… friend's comment about the girl's escorts. "Is she making her debut this year?" Sometimes the younger girls in Frankia would attend balls such as this one escorted by fathers or brothers, before they were officially old enough to be courted.

"No, two years past, but her Head of House has sworn that he will not write a marriage contract for her until her elder sister has been married off. That's her, talking to Despereaux."

Lucius let his eyes roam over the elder sister's form again. She, like her friend, was too dark and too… unrefined to catch his eye, but objectively good-looking, he supposed. Striking. She was also at least as old as her friend, which was unusual for one of their set – they, especially the ladies, tended to marry far younger than twenty-five. "I shouldn't think that would be a problem," he noted. "Hasn't she suitors?"

Rabastan snorted. Lucius fought to avoid making a face of disgust at the older man. He had been kind enough to offer Lucius an invitation to this most exclusive gathering – an excuse to get out of the house for the evening and enjoy the holiday a bit – but he was _most_ uncouth. "Oh, plenty," he said scornfully. "Including my elder brother."

"So what, then, is the problem?" Lucius asked, confused. He had arrived from Frankia only a few months before, and did not fully understand the nuances of Magical British politics, but their courting practices were, so far as he knew, quite similar to those he had witnessed at home. With a relatively small pool of potential candidates for a proper match, the Western European pureblood magical communities tended to intermarry often enough that their customs had come to resemble each other over the years.

"Oh, well! The Blackheart's made it very clear she has no intentions to wed, and she has some sort of hold over her Head of House so he can't just force her. It's become a power-play, with Miss Narcissa caught in the middle."

 _Narcissa._ He savored the sound of her name. Already he knew that he wanted her for himself, the flower of youthful, perfect grace, poised before him, almost close enough to reach out and touch, with only one dark, maiden sister standing between them. "How resolute are these intentions of hers?"

"She cut Rodolphus' balls off after the third time he petitioned Arcturus Black for her hand," Rabastan said in a tone so flat that Lucius didn't dare ask whether he was joking.

"And she got away with this? She is still allowed to walk free?" Lucius was shocked. Such violence would hardly be condoned in his home country – not after Grindelwald's War – and certainly not by a _woman_.

"It was a legal duel… technically. She could have killed him – she was toying with him, it was clear. There were many witnesses. That was nearly three years ago, and the reason that Arcturus has decided to use Narcissa's marriage as incentive for someone to find a way to take the vicious bitch off his hands. But no sane wizard will approach her. Everyone knows the story. Young men beg their fathers not to consider a contract with her. Even Rodolphus has given up, but then, she swore she _would_ kill him next time, so… There's a rumor going around that old Arcturus would take her death just as well as her marriage, but quite frankly there's as little chance of one as the other."

Lucius hummed, working the problem. "Is there anyone in Magical Britain who _isn't_ afraid of this witch?"

Rabastan rolled his eyes, then snorted again. "The Dark Lord?" he suggested.

The French wizard pursed his lips slightly as he considered this. Rabastan had been attempting to recruit him for his Dark Lord's cause since shortly after he had arrived in Britain. It was half the reason he had been invited at all this evening. He hadn't even been seriously considering it – he had come to Britain to escape his father's overbearing shadow of influence and make a name for himself. He hardly thought that swearing loyalty to a Dark Lord would be the proper step forward in that regard. But perhaps he should talk to the gentleman in question, if he was truly the only prospect to address the problem of the witch standing between himself and the one he desired.

"I'm going to talk to her," he announced.

" _Bellatrix?_ " Rabastan asked, taken aback.

Lucius scoffed. "Certainly not!" he called over his shoulder as he strode purposefully toward the younger sister.

…

Gemma, a rather distantly related younger cousin, just making her debut, was nattering on at Narcissa about the chances of a match with Barty Crouch, the son of the new Head of the DMLE, when the elder witch felt a wizard's presence sweep up behind her. She turned, poised to curtsey if he was someone she knew, or slap him, if he was one of the too-familiar young sods who had taken to molesting her since she had entered the marriage market with the… unique restrictions her Great Uncle had placed upon her contract price. It had been heavily implied that whosoever could rid him of her older sister would receive the younger girl's hand in marriage. A certain segment of the population seemed to believe that she ought to be so overwhelmed by their manly charms that she would betray her sister's confidences, and help them to seduce or assassinate Bella, and claim Narcissa for themselves.

She sniffed at the grey-eyed, flaxen-haired young wizard, who stepped back and bowed, implying a parity of their stations. "Please allow me to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle," he said smoothly. His accent matched his robes – French and of the very highest quality. She raised an eyebrow at his too-forward greeting – imagine, introducing _oneself_ – but he persisted. "Lucius Malfoy, Heir of le Fief Perdu and the seat of Seigneur Malfoy on le Conseil de Frankia."

She left him hanging for a moment before she accepted his greeting and extended a hand. He brushed his lips, dry and smooth, across her first knuckle – more intimate than most would dare, but then, she supposed he _was_ French. "Narcissa Zaniah, of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."

" _Enchanté,_ Mademoiselle Black." The look he gave her held far more heat than his words or tone betrayed.

Gemma elbowed her cousin in the ribs, jolting her out of her fascination with his strong chin and the entitled pout of his lips. "I must introduce my cousin, Miss Gemma Black," Narcissa said dutifully. "She is making her first appearance in Society this evening."

The younger girl, a vision in pink and silver, giggled as the French gentleman greeted her properly – though, Narcissa noticed, with less intimacy than he had her. She was not surprised when he turned back to her and requested the next dance – a waltz.

" _Certainement_ ," she acquiesced, ignoring her elder sister's sharp look as she allowed M. Malfoy to lead her onto the dance floor. Even if she could not seriously consider a match until Bellatrix was wed (or dead), she could still enjoy a single dance with a fine young specimen of French wizardry.

They made small talk in French and English – how he was finding Britain; whether she was enjoying the party. He complimented her grace, and she complimented his conversational skill. It was, on the whole, one of the more pleasant dances she had had over the course of the evening, especially since it was one of the few _not_ with a wizard who shared her name, but as such things tended to go, little of substance was exchanged. Too soon, the song ended with a flourish, and he escorted her back to the place where she had left Gemma (who had wandered away, and was flirting with one of the Wilkes boys).

"Might I call upon you later this week?" he asked as her cousin spotted her and made to return to her side.

She hated to disappoint him. She was not opposed to getting to know him better – he was polite and handsome, obviously well-bred and well-monied – an Heir to a French title was nothing to sneer at, though she would have to look into the relative age of his family, and their connections with the British Aristocracy. If it weren't for Paterfamilias Arcturus' injunction against her marriage, she would have allowed him to plight his troth without a second thought. As it was, however, she could not lead him on. "You should know, my Head of House will not allow me to consider a match before my elder sister is wed," she explained quietly.

Malfoy – Lucius – just smirked confidently. "That was not a 'no,'" he observed, as he bowed his farewell.

She smiled in spite of herself, charmed by the slight edge of eager rebelliousness in him and his insouciant confidence. She was still smiling when Gemma disentangled herself from Derik Wilkes and appeared at her side. "Someone's made a conquest," she said in a sing-song voice, irritatingly reminiscent of their elder cousin Meissa.

"Oh, shut up, Gem – you know Pater Arcturus won't let anything come of it. And even if he did, he'd still have to charm his way past Bella."

The younger girl nodded sympathetically. Bellatrix was the eldest of their generation and rather protective of all of them, but none so much as her younger sister. Gemma knew as well as anyone that no one would ever be good enough for Narcissa in Bella's eyes. "Sucks to be you," the younger witch said, in a tone of utter sincerity and condolence that clashed _horribly_ with the unforgivably muggle phrase.

" _You_ have been spending _too_ much time with Sirius!" the elder witch declared, appalled.

Gemma just laughed. "No, he hasn't spoken to me since I told him he was a right wanker for abandoning the Heirship to run panting after Jamie Potter like some two-sickle Knockturn whore."

" _Language_ , Gemma!"

The fifteen-year-old grinned unrepentantly. "I got that one from Uncle Kaven, anyway."

Narcissa bit her tongue on her initial response, which held a slur against Gemma's mother's people. "Watch your mouth," she chided, instead. "Unless you want it getting back to Pater Arcturus that Lady Parkinson overheard you talking like a mudblood at your own debut."

The debutante shivered. "No," she agreed. "Thanks all the same. Oh, look! There's Violette! Come on, Cissy!"

Narcissa sighed, and allowed herself to be dragged away to discuss the trivialities of the ball and her Rosier cousin's holiday, wondering whether M. Malfoy would, indeed, attempt to call upon her in the coming days.


	2. The Deal is Struck

New Year's Eve, 1976

"You… are you _insane_? You can't just –"

Despite the fact that the Dark Lord on his throne-like seat was thinking very much the same thing, he really couldn't allow anyone else to correct others in his presence. "Lestrange," he drawled, in a rather effective imitation of the high-class Magical British accent, then snapped, " _Shut up_."

Lestrange did, his jaw closing with an audible click. That was almost as amusing as the request the Frankish nobleman beside him had made.

The blond boy (for he _was_ a boy, no older than nineteen, and so naïve that it almost hurt to wrap his mind around the younger wizard's, despite an aura that spoke of more than a passing familiarity with dark magic) looked at his companion askance. "Would your lordship be willing to consider my humble request?" he asked arrogantly.

The Dark Lord smirked. He was more familiar than he cared to recall with Malfoy arrogance. This lad's uncle, one Scorpius Malfoy, had, long ago, been his least favorite year-mate at Hogwarts. "You would swear yourself into my ranks, in exchange for the hand of Narcissa Black? I fail to see how you believe I would accomplish such a boon, given that I am not the head of the good lady's house, nor, indeed, do I perceive any reason I should so favor you." _Do I_ look _like a matchmaker?_ he added in silent, scathing commentary. One really had to do _something_ to amuse oneself in these tedious meetings.

"Please, my Lord," Lestrange groveled. "It is the talk of the noble houses – Arcturus Black is willing to promise the hand of Narcissa, the Second Daughter of his House, to anyone who will… _relieve_ him of Bellatrix, the First Daughter of Black."

"So you ask for a murder in exchange for your loyalty?" the Dark Lord mused.

" _Non_ ," Malfoy said firmly. "If it was ever revealed that I had arranged for her sister's murder, fair Narcissa would never consider my suit!"

"So…" A deep sense of disbelief was working its way to the forefront of the Dark Lord's mind. He couldn't possibly mean…

"I ask your lordship to _court_ Mademoiselle Bellatrix." He did. Oh, that was… positively absurd. "I could make it well worth your while!" the boy added quickly. The Dark Lord simply raised an eyebrow at him. "I am the Heir to the Malfoy fortune! I would, naturally, be willing to support my sworn liege-lord's endeavors, _however_ I might be best suited to do so." He fell silent at last, and the red-eyed wizard blinked at him in astonishment.

Well.

That changed things.

The Malfoys were infamously rich, rivaling the Lestranges with their ill-gotten fortunes. Swear the boy to his banner under those terms, arrange a single 'accident' across the Channel, and his financial resources could grow by nearly half.

But would it be worth it?

He considered all he knew of Bellatrix Black. It was surprisingly little. They had met in passing on several occasions – Magical Britain's High Society was too small for them not to have crossed paths before – but she had never distinguished herself as a person of interest to him. The closest she had come was defeating the elder Lestrange boy in single combat and emasculating him for pressing his suit against her will. Despite what the younger Lestrange might think, his Lord _was_ fully aware of _that_ particular bit of Society gossip, as it had directly impacted the morale of his forces. Even then, he had blamed the general stupidity and incompetence of Lestrange for the loss of the duel and his testicles, and had simply punished him for the embarrassment of having had a second-circle Death Eater so soundly and publically defeated.

Ms. Black herself was little more than a face in the background of Society gatherings, perhaps two decades his junior, distantly related to at least half of his minions. The only truly intriguing thing about her, so far as he could think, was the fact that she obviously had some hold over her Head of House, if he could not simply force her to do his bidding, and marry her off himself. _That_ … whatever it was that she held over him, was a far more worthy pursuit than her hand in marriage, he was sure: the Head of the House of Black was one of the most influential Dark politicians who had thus far resisted the expansion of Lord Voldemort's power.

If he was to agree to this… frankly _ludicrous_ request, he might easily achieve more than one goal: access to the Malfoy fortune _and_ access to whatever information Ms. Black held over her Paterfamilias. The latter was, in fact, the only reason he was actually considering undertaking the task himself, rather than simply ordering one of the younger and more attractive underlings to do it. After all, it wasn't as though seducing witches was _difficult_.

Almost to his own surprise, he found himself debating the relative merits of fulfilling the request.

Presumably there was a reason she had not acceded to a match already, but such reasons were not insurmountable, he was sure. Even if it turned out she was a witches' witch, so much the better: this could be a purely business arrangement. He himself didn't actually need or desire a wife (for his Dark Lord _or_ his French pureblood persona), and there was no point in attempting to secure an heir if one intended to live forever. He supposed she might conceivably make a nuisance of herself, especially if she expected to live with him, but if she grew _too_ tedious, he supposed he could just kill her _after_ they were wed.

His young Death Eater and the even younger recruit were still watching him warily, as he considered the options. At long last, he gave them his most devious smile. "I believe we have ourselves an accord, M. Malfoy."

It was only too easy to lead the boy through the vows of homage, loyalty, and fidelity. The Dark Mark followed immediately – the Dark Lord did not even demand that the recruit kill to prove his resolve, for fear he would fail that test, and thus ruin the chances of his acquiring the Malfoy fortune.

When the blond had been dismissed to recover from the pain of the Marking, he ordered Lestrange to fetch the youngest of the Yaxley brothers for him. "I have a task for young Ambrose… a little trip to Paris…"

* * *

January 1977

"Pater Arcturus? M. de Mort is here for your two o'clock appointment, regarding a marriage proposal."

"Send him in, then," Arcturus sighed, waving away his assistant, one of the more distantly related cadets of the House. Maybe, he thought, he would be lucky, and this particular young idiot would be interested in making an offer for Gemma, instead of Narcissa. In hindsight, it had been a great deal more trouble than he had anticipated, making Bellatrix's removal from the House of Black a condition of Narcissa's availability to wed, but he would be damned if he went back on that vow now. _That_ would be tantamount to an admission to the family and the whole of society that the thrice-cursed First Daughter held more power in the House of Black than its Paterfamilias!

The insufferable child still hadn't come to terms with his passing her over as the Heir in Waiting all those years ago. Even if she hadn't sold her soul to the Dark and with it her humanity, that alone would be proof that she wasn't well-suited to the position. Not to mention the way she was far more interested than was healthy in arithmancy and the Dark Arts, spending all her time on academic pursuits rather than following her mother into Society. Say what you would about Druella Rosier's parenting skills, she was an _excellent_ politician and society wife to Cygnus.

The Head of the House of Black was still pondering the shortcomings of his least-favorite great-niece when Polaris returned, leading a rather more mature wizard than he had been expecting. At his age, he wouldn't exactly call the other man _old_ – he was, Arcturus judged, likely only about fifty years of age – but neither Gemma nor Narcissa was likely to be receptive of a suitor closer to their parents' age than their own. _Older_ than their parents, in Gemma's case. Perhaps he was here to negotiate on behalf of a son, or some other, younger family member.

The Frenchman bowed precisely, introducing himself as Thom de Mort, Head of his House.

Arcturus sneered. He knew of all the European families with a status comparable to that of the Blacks. De Mort was _not_ one of them. _Mortis_ , yes, but _de Mort_ sounded like an unrecognized bastard branch of the family if ever he had heard of one.

"Let me save you from wasting our valuable time, Monsieur… de Mort," he interrupted, not even bothering to rise to return the greeting. "The House of Black does not ally itself with peasants, and foreign peasants, at that."

The stranger's eyes narrowed, and he raised an eyebrow at his host's rudeness, but apparently decided to bluff the situation out. "Who said anything about an _alliance_ , Lord Black? Surely this is more of a… business arrangement. It was my… understanding that you required a certain _service_ rendered, which none of the so-worthy scions of your _noble_ British houses are willing to take on."

All at once, Arcturus' mood shifted, as he realized the intent behind de Mort's vague letter requesting a meeting. "So this is not about Gemma, or Narcissa?"

The younger wizard smirked. "Oh, it is about Miss Narcissa, at least indirectly. But it is the elder Daughter's hand I seek."

The Head of Black was hard-pressed not to laugh at his confidence. "How does Narcissa factor into it, then?" he asked suspiciously.

"Let us just say… it has been made worth my while, to tame your harridan and clear the way for an interested party to press his suit with her lovely sister. Thus I find myself in the admittedly unexpected position of humbly requesting a contract of marriage to Bellatrix Black, First Daughter of your House."

At that Arcturus did truly chuckle, rather sinisterly. "Should you manage to convince her, I am sure we can come to some sort of mutually acceptable arrangement," he sneered, for the sake of form, though inside he grinned giddily. It had been _months_ since there had been any suitors for Bellatrix. "Unfortunately my agreement alone is not sufficient to compel her cooperation, so you shall, in fact, have to play court to her, but in the unlikely event you succeed, you shall have my blessing."

De Mort nodded, a certain hint of smugness playing around his lips as he did so. He _clearly_ had no idea what he was up against.


	3. A Certain Lack of Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: NSFW, fem-slash (non-explicit)

June 1977

"Good morning, starshine." Isabella Zabini stretched herself out languidly on the chaise lounge in her best friend's study. She made a very attractive, very _distracting_ picture, and she knew it.

Nevertheless, Bella was ignoring her. She hummed a greeting under her breath without even looking up.

This was not so unusual a state of affairs, especially when she had spent the night. The Black witch was prone to flashes of inspiration in the small hours, and often abandoned her bed to outline a curse to stop the reversion of animagi to their human form at the point of death or something equally useless. At the moment, she was engaged in a debate on the nature of the multiverse with some bloke who called himself Merfyn in the pages of _Árthra Endiaféronta_ , the Dark Arts research journal out of Miskatonic. Apparently she had thought of some way of countering his latest point, because she was scribbling furiously at her desk. She had tried explaining the theory to Zee on more than one occasion, but it might as well have been Greek to the Italian.

" _Bellaaaa_ , as fascinating as it is to watch you work, I didn't come over to watch you do your best Ravenclaw impression." She had, in fact, been looking forward to a round of morning sex before making her way back out to the real world, where she had an important date with one Daniel Charleston, or, as Bella liked to refer to him, the future late Mr. Zabini.

Nothing.

Isabella sighed, and padded out of the room to get dressed and see if her friend had any tea. This was a task made doubly irritating due to the fact that there were no elves at the Cottage. Arcturus had forbidden the Black Family Elves to serve Bella, and Bella had something against the cheerful little creatures, anyway. She had once mentioned that she had had been disowned by an elf when she was a child, and she hadn't got on with them since. Like many ( _many_ ) of the things the Black witch had mentioned casually and in passing over the years, Zee could not be sure whether this was a joke of some sort, or not. It seemed too strange to be true, but then, Bella was _very_ odd.

In any case, the lack of elves meant that she had to both make her own tea, _and_ that such trivial items as tea were often not replaced for weeks or months at a time when Bella ran out and decided that they were less important than working out the theoretical feasibility of time travel.

Sure enough, the kitchen was a mess, and the cupboards nearly bare. From the look of the sink, her friend had been subsisting on porridge and nutrient potions for several days at least. Isabella rolled her eyes. The prisoners at _Azkaban_ ate better than that, she was pretty sure. There was tea, though, and sugar (but no milk).

She brought her cup back into the study, and swapped Bella's for her inkwell. "When was the last time you left this house, Bee?" she asked sternly.

The dark-haired witch finally looked up to give her a reproachful glare, but she did accept the tea. "What's today?"

"The twelfth."

"Of?"

" _June_ , you moron. Are you seriously telling me you don't even – _Bella_! This is why people think you're a crazy person."

Bella smirked. "Actually, you're the only person who thinks I'm a crazy person for being a recluse. Most of them think I'm insane for the Lestrange thing. Or the thing with Arcturus. Or, well… lots of reasons, but not because of that. And I went out last week to back up Eridanus' objections to the Parkinson alliance and pick up supplies."

Isabella ignored the reference to the Black Family's internal politics. She had heard it all before, and in any case, she had a more important point to make. "What supplies? There is literally no food in your kitchen."

"I picked up a few muggles to experiment on – I needed to run animal trials for that exsanguination curse I told you about. And I stopped at the Nameless Bookshop – Anomos was hinting they'd got a new Egyptian manuscript in, but it turns out it was just a fragment of Ptolemy, nothing useful."

Isabella tutted at her friend as she sifted through the post that had accumulated in the Black witch's in-box, still holding the ink-well hostage. About a two thirds of the letters were obviously cursed or enchanted – possibly port-keys from Narcissa's less-than-scrupulous suitors, though at least half of them were from various Blacks. Due to Bella's habit of defending her younger cousins' interests from their parents and grandparents, Arcturus was not the only one who thought their lives would all be much easier if she were simply to disappear. She had been caught by one of these only once, and spent what she claimed were several very enjoyable months in 1968 in the middle of a war zone before making her way back to England and developing what she termed 'improvements' of a petroleum-based muggle incendiary potion. Arcturus had not been amused when she tested it on the home of the uncle whom she believed to be responsible for that particular port-key, though Isabella had thought bright blue conflagration – which burned straight through wards meant to subdue even the darkest of magical flames – was very pretty.

Several of those letters that remained looked like official Ministry reprimands or summons, which Bella invariably ignored, under the assumption that if it was truly important, they would contact Arcturus, who would send one of her cousins to tell her the message in person. Most of the others were from names Zee recognized as academics and dark arts enthusiasts. The one that caught her eye, however, was an indigo envelope sealed with a creamy-white death's head. "De Mort sent you another letter, and you haven't even looked at it?!"

Over the past six months, Thomas de Mort had sent flowers, chocolates, and jewelry to her friend, all of which had been rebuffed, along with his invitations to dinner, theater events, balls, and every other occasion and public event to which a well-bred witch might be expected to accompany a suitor. The last several had been sent back with particularly nasty return-to-sender jinxes. Zee was curious how much longer the Frenchman would maintain his interest in the face of Bella's resolute 'no,' but the Black witch was clearly getting irritated with the situation.

"I'm working on it! I've had a thought on how to suspend fiendfire as a return-to-sender jinx – it should be fairly spectacular if it works out…"

"Bee! Overkill much? Why won't you give him a chance?"

"Because he seems to think 'no' means I'm playing the blushing maiden, and he's probably only interested in the first place because someone's paying him or something. And it's more fun to find creative ways to destroy his letters. I'm getting seriously annoyed, now, though. It's been almost six months! If he keeps this up past the solstice, I've decided I'm going to frame him for murder."

The Italian giggled at her friend's too-serious expression. She didn't doubt the other witch could and would do it, but it was still amusing to hear her say so in such a matter-of-fact way.

"'Dear Ms. Black,'" she read, cracking open the seal. "'Despite your continued silence, you are always in my thoughts. It would please me greatly if you would consider me as an escort to this year's Bacchanalia…' blah, blah, blah. You should go, though," she added, "I'm going with Daniel."

Bella made a face. "You and the future late Mr. Zabini are welcome to it."

"Bee, I'm telling you this as your friend. Possibly your _only_ friend," she teased gently. "You _need to get out more_."

The other witch gave her the trademark Black smirk. "Why bother, when you can be convinced to come to me? Now are you going to give me my inkwell back, or do I need to fight you for it?"

Isabella sighed, but decided to let it go. "I was thinking more of a bribe," she winked, tossing de Mort's letter back onto Bella's desk, and sauntering back toward the bedroom, taking the inkwell with her. She threw a smirk over her shoulder, and was pleased to see that the Black witch looked more than willing to join her for that morning romp after all.

…

The announcement of the death of Seigneur Armand Malfoy was, on the whole, a rather understated affair. Nearly six months after joining the forces of the Dark Lord Voldemort in pursuit of fair Narcissa, Lucius had received a letter from his uncle, Scorpius, demanding his presence for his father's funeral. Apparently it was some kind of potions accident – suspicious, because Armand Malfoy had been a more-than-competent brewer, but no one could prove any foul play. Lucius didn't know what to think about this turn of events.

He had, of course, attended the funeral. He had also spent several weeks attending to the affairs of the family, putting them in order and appointing his uncle as his proxy on the Conseil before returning to England and de Mort. It was not, after all, as though he could leave the side of his sworn lord, given the binding magic anchored in his very soul.

It was not every day that he cursed his hasty agreement to take the Dark Lord's mark, but it was a very close thing. Every other day, at least.

For one thing, he was now in a position to fulfil the rash financial promises he had made, and for another, he was still no closer to winning the hand of his chosen bride. If he hadn't managed to extract a vow from the Dark Lord that he would pursue the elder Black witch with all possible efficiency, he would have suspected the older wizard of shirking his end of the agreement.

As it was, he decided to use the lack of progress on that front as an excuse not to follow through on his own obligations: after all, he had not yet seen any proof of services rendered, which had been the essence of the agreement – Lucius would swear himself to the Cause and provide a percentage of his considerable financial holdings on his inheritance of the Malfoy fortune, and the Dark Lord would ensure that his path to Narcissa Black was cleared.

Of course, he had assumed that he would not inherit for some time to come, and he had even been considering asking his father to incorporate their holdings, or to pass the majority of the family wealth into a trust, rather than devolving it onto him individually, in order to wriggle out of the most onerous part of the obligation. If he, personally, inherited relatively little (and especially if he could make it seem as though this was through no fault of his own), then he would owe the Dark Lord far less, while simultaneously remaining in control of the vast majority of his resources. But he had not trusted an explanation that particular request to an international post owl, and he had decided it would be too suspicious to visit his family so soon after making such an agreement. It would have been far better to wait until the next time his father had called him home, to avoid any potential fingers pointed at him in arranging such a work-around. But now it was too late.

The best he could do was refuse to complete his end of the deal until the Dark Lord followed through on his own task, and hope that Ms. Bellatrix would hold out against him long enough for Lucius to find some other way to 'lose' control of most of his assets. After all, it would not do to win Narcissa's hand, only to find himself a pauper, unable to support the lifestyle to which she was doubtless accustomed.

The Dark Lord had been furious at this response, sizzling cold magic flooding the audience chamber, plucking at the Mark, but bound as he was by his own vow and its reciprocal nature, there was little he could do, even given the strength of that connection. If he killed Lucius, there was no way he would ever receive the funds he had promised. Just in case, though, the Frenchman decided, it would be best if he had some additional leverage of his own – in the event that he didn't find a financial way to dodge Lord Voldemort's demands, it would be helpful to have some other incentive for the older wizard to refrain from demanding he follow through. In fact, it would probably be a good idea regardless, given that the Dark Lord would likely not receive his treachery well, should that endeavor, in fact, succeed.

With that thought in mind, he wrote a letter, calling on one of his newly inherited House Elves to deliver it:

_My dearest Uncle,_

_I find myself in need of information: I have recently met a wizard of great strength who claims to be one of our fellow countrymen, but I cannot place his name. Are you familiar with a M. Thomas de Mort, or have you any contacts who know of him? Anything you may be able to tell me would be useful..._

…

When the response arrived, Lucius laughed himself sick. Thomas de Mort was, according to his Uncle's best efforts at tracking the man, not a pureblood, as he claimed, nor even a Frankish citizen at all. Apparently it had taken a great deal of effort to track down a photo of the Dark Lord un-glamored, but when he had, his uncle had recognized the other wizard at once. His true name, according to Scorpius, was Tom Riddle, half-blood British pretender to the title Heir of Slytherin, and Scorpius' former yearmate at Hogwarts.

With _that_ little nugget of information in hand, the newly-minted Lord Malfoy felt more than confident in pushing ahead with his efforts as June became July, and Narcissa Black returned from school, NEWT qualifications in hand.


	4. The Plot Thickens

July 1977

"Cissy!"

Narcissa flinched at the sound of her elder sister's voice, throwing off the timing on the shield that _ought_ to have reflected Regulus' cutting curse back at him. Instead it struck her right shoulder, slicing through pale skin and the muscle beneath so neatly that it hardly hurt until she attempted to lift her wand again and blood coursed from the wound. "Bugger!"

Regulus laughed, a sound as carefree as ever it had been when he was a child, but now with a note of deepness that made Narcissa squirm uncomfortably. Not for the first time, she concealed a longing glance, acutely aware of how much her baby cousin had matured over the past two years. "One-naught!"

"Oh, stuff it," the girl pouted. "Come over here and heal this, I can't get the angle…"

Regulus was halfway through repairing the damage he had caused when Bellatrix arrived in full dudgeon.

"Cissy, what is this?!" she demanded, waving a sheet of parchment in her sister's face.

Narcissa snatched it from her hand. "I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea," she snapped. Though upon examination it appeared to be, "A request for an audience, it would seem. From Seigneur Malfoy. I fail to see the source of your concern, sister."

"'In light of our correspondence over the course of the past months,'" Bellatrix quoted with a pointed glare. "What do you think you're doing, _corresponding_ with this… _suitor_?"

Narcissa felt herself flush. She had not mentioned said correspondence for exactly this reason: she had known that Bellatrix would overreact to the idea that Narcissa was, in fact, truly in favor of marriage. Not that she thought she was in favor of marriage to Malfoy. For all she found his slight rebelliousness and infatuation attractive, he was rather unpleasantly arrogant and altogether too… _refined_ for her tastes. (She kept comparing him to Regulus in her mind, and finding him wanting, for all his five years' seniority and newly-inherited title.) "It's only letters! Speaking of which, why are you reading my post?!"

"You're staying at my house: it was delivered to me. I had every right," the elder witch sniffed.

"Dragonshite!"

"Cissy!" Regulus looked appalled by her language, but also amused.

"You know it's true, Regulus! My post is my business!"

"But your visitors are not," Bellatrix interrupted coolly. "You will _not_ meet with this… _Malfoy_ without a chaperone."

" _Fine_!" Narcissa snapped. "I'm sure Regulus will –"

"Nonsense," Bellatrix scoffed. "Regulus is but a child."

"I'm almost sixteen now, Bella!" the young man objected.

She raised an unimpressed brow at him before turning back to Narcissa. " _I_ will chaperone any and all meetings between yourself and this Malfoy character personally."

" _Bella_! You'll scare him off!"

"If he can be scared off by the mere presence of a chaperone, he is not made of stern enough stuff to marry a Black," the elder witch smirked.

"But –"

"My house, my rules," Bella snapped. "You're welcome to return to the Keep or Ancient House if you prefer."

There was no chance that Narcissa would return to living with Pater Arcturus (whose fault this whole mess with her marriage was) or her mother (who nagged her endlessly about the situation, despite her inability to resolve it). All three of them knew it. "Perhaps I'll go stay with Auntie Walburga!"

All three of them knew that that was an empty threat, as well. Narcissa too dearly loved being the lady of the Cottage in all but name to return to being treated as a child in any of her aunts' or cousins' houses. "Do tell the elves to stock the pantry before you leave," Bella taunted, spinning on her heel and stalking back toward the house.

Narcissa waited until she was certain the elder witch was out of earshot before she growled, "Ooh, she makes me so _angry_!"

Regulus snorted, snagging the letter out of her hand. "Well, she's a far sight better than living with my mother, and you know it."

The witch sighed. She did. The only rules at the Cottage were that Narcissa's elves (brought with her from Ancient House, because Narcissa simply did not cook) were to keep out of Bella's study, and if Zee was spending the night, Narcissa should not open any closed doors. The latter was more of a self-imposed guideline than anything else: neither Bella nor her lover appeared to mind too terribly when she had had the misfortune to walk in on them in the bath, but Narcissa was certain she had been scarred for life. She had had no idea her sister was that _flexible_ , and more to the point, _she hadn't wanted to know_.

"What's this?" the wizard asked. "'I would be most obliged if you could shed any additional light on the problem we have discussed, as my current approach does not appear to have been in any way productive.'"

Narcissa sighed. "Bellatrix. She's the problem. Lucius has arranged for someone to try to court her. One M. de Mort. I think she's trying to frame him for the murder of Mr. Carmichael now. She and Zee were talking about it the other day."

"Framing a potential suitor for murder seems a bit… extreme. Even for Bella," Regulus chuckled.

"That's what Zee said, but he's been at it since Yule," Narcissa explained. "And he doesn't seem to be inclined to take 'no' for an answer. Bella told Zee that if she wants her husband murdered, she can let de Mort take the fall, or she can do it herself."

The wizard's eyes widened. "What, truly?"

"Well, you know how Bella is. She gave an ultimatum, Zee caved, and then they had make-up sex in the study. They keep forgetting the silencing wards," she explained with a flush, in answer to Regulus' questioning expression.

"Ah." That revelation killed the conversation for several minutes. They sat at the edge of the dueling ground, avoiding looking at each other, until Regulus asked haltingly: "Do you… like him? Malfoy? Would you accept his suit, I mean, if you could?" There was a note of petulant jealousy in his tone.

Narcissa sighed. This was the other reason it was so difficult to ignore her attraction to her cousin: it was clear that he was similarly attracted to her. She shrugged lightly. "Perhaps."

Regulus pouted, the fullness of his lips a striking contrast to the sharp Black cheekbones and the strong jawline that he had developed over the course of the past year. She leaned forward without thinking and pressed her own against them. When she pulled back, he looked quite stunned, as though she had hit him in the face with a bludger, rather than a rather chaste and unadventurous kiss.

"Narcissa…"

"Yes?"

"You…"

"You thought I didn't know," she smirked.

He nodded. "And you…?"

She flushed, ever so slightly, and nodded. "I… Lucius is… a tool. He has somehow motivated this de Mort to woo Bella, and against all the odds, he seems to stand a sporting chance of succeeding, as she's not managed to dissuade him yet. I rather think I must continue to give Lucius hope until Bella is convinced, lest he somehow withdraw his countryman from the fray. But once Bella is safely wed, I will be free to marry whomever I choose."

Regulus sighed. "Not _anyone_ , though. Pater Arcturus would never approve…"

Narcissa glared at him. "You know as well as I do that we're not related by blood."

It was true: Narcissa was a bastard, an open secret within the House, though she had been claimed as a daughter of Black regardless, and accorded full rights as such. It was that very acknowledgment which would make it difficult, if not impossible, for Regulus to press his suit: his own parents had been first cousins, and even the Blacks were wary of too many overly-close matches in subsequent generations. Blood-cousins or no, they shared a family name, which would be enough for a scandal if they were to attempt to wed, and neither Arcturus nor their parents would likely allow such a thing.

"You know as well as I do that that doesn't matter."

The witch did her best impression of her elder sister: "Consequences are for lesser mortals, Black," she sneered.

He laughed. "So, what? You keep leading Malfoy on, we help de Mort woo Bella, and then when she's no longer an obstacle…"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she claimed confidently, and was rewarded with a grin and a shy (but not tentative) reciprocation of her kiss.

"We should contact de Mort and warn him about the murder thing," Regulus said, flushing slightly as he pulled away, sending darting glances toward the Cottage.

Narcissa beamed. "I'll get his address. You'll have to write him, though. If Bella's reading my post…"

"Of course," Regulus smirked in return, then levered himself off the ground and offered her a hand. "Best two out of three?"

…

The Dark Lord contemplated the letter before him, wondering distantly at what point his life had become so thoroughly absurd.

 _My Dear M. de Mort_ , it read. _Please forgive the forwardness of contacting you so directly, but a mutual friend has brought it to my attention that you might value some advice in the pursuit of a certain witch…_

Bellatrix Black was, he would admit, becoming increasingly irritating as she resisted the common attempts he had made to garner her attentions, replying with ever-more-vicious rejections. He could appreciate the effort she had apparently gone to with her return-to-sender jinxes (the latest had nearly knocked out the wards designed to capture and neutralize any cursed post) but six months of this obnoxious behavior was simply absurd. Apparently the witch thought so as well, because according to her cousin, apparently writing on behalf of Lucius' prize, she was considering an attempt to frame him for murder in order to convince him to desist.

And this… _boy_ was offering to spy for him, to obtain information, in order to… please his cousin, apparently. Or perhaps he was only acting as an intermediary.

The Dark Lord scowled. Utterly absurd. He had never been one to accept help of any sort – that was tantamount to admitting that he _needed_ help, and Tom Riddle needed no one!

But he would admit that accepting the offered… _assistance_ might speed the process a bit. He was becoming quite anxious to have the Malfoy fortune in hand: negotiations with the goblins were proceeding apace, and it would be remarkably useful to have a few million galleons to throw around before they reached a head.

He penned a swift acceptance to Regulus Black before turning to the problem posed by the _second_ most irritating witch in his life: Antistita Discordiae, as she called herself in her articles for _Árthra Endiaféronta_. For someone who claimed a goddess of chaos as her Patron, she was surprisingly logical, and she had come up with a most creative rebuttal to his latest thought experiment regarding the nature of the multiverse and the infeasibility of truly _changing_ the future through time travel. Much as he hated to admit it, he was slowly becoming convinced of her argument that whether or not time was _changed_ was a matter of perspective.

…

"Cissy!" Regulus called urgently, almost before he exited the floo.

"Reg?"

"Is Bella here?"

"No, she said she was going to make a nuisance of herself at the Wizengamot meeting. In her words, dear Papa gets uppity when he thinks she's not paying him enough attention. Why?"

Regulus grinned. " _He wrote back_! What say you we raid the Study and try to find something useful for him."

Narcissa mirrored his expression perfectly.


	5. The Secret Identity Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: NSFW - fem-slash, somewhat explicit

July 1977

The Dark Lord was bemused.

Surely, the young Black who had taken it upon himself to 'help' with the wooing of his older cousin could have no idea who he was. And yet he had apparently thought it a good idea to include in his letter a list of illegal texts he knew the witch to own; development notes on several Black Arts rituals and an _extraordinarily_ dark curse which he _thought_ was intended to exsanguinate the victim, but which would probably actually result in all the blood in said victim's body to dry at once as the water was removed from the bloodstream; and most damning of all, a copy of the most second-most-recent _Árthra Endiaféronta_. While she might have been able to write off the books as heirlooms and the development notes as not technically illegal unless there was some proof that she had actually _used_ the rituals or curse in question, the Miskatonic journal was entirety anathema, and as such it was a minimum sentence of two years in Azkaban to be caught in possession of it. If 'Thom de Mort' had been any sort of law abiding citizen, there was a very good chance that Miss Bellatrix would have the aurors on her doorstep by lunchtime.

Perhaps his lack of concern over the idea that she might be planning to frame him for murder had given away the fact that he wasn't.

Or perhaps it was the fact that he had not reported her return-to-sender jinxes as being well outside the realm of legality.

In any case, he was _not_ a law-abiding citizen (no matter how much it occasionally amused him to pretend to be one) and had no intention of going to the authorities with this evidence. Despite the fact that he suspected such a course of action might be a much faster route to removing the obstruction to Malfoy's plans which was the elder Miss Black, it was not in accordance with the deal he had made or the vow he had sworn.

And even if it had been, he suspected that he might have hesitated, because he couldn't help but note, as he flipped idly through the journal, that the witch had heavily annotated the article he had submitted… including several ideas and phrases which later made it into the response published in the July issue: Bellatrix Black and Antistita Discordiae were, apparently, one and the same.

All at once, he realized, somewhat to his own surprise, the witch in question had become altogether more interesting than either the stubborn young lady or his mysterious correspondent had been individually. While he had initially taken on the task of wedding her for the sake of the Malfoy fortune, he found he was now genuinely intrigued.

Perhaps, he mused, running a critical eye over her hastily-scrawled comments again, _perhaps_ she had rejected his advances because she found the idea of Thom de Mort and his so-conventional gifts and invitations as dull as he did the average socialite. If he approached her as the Dark Lord, instead…

Well, the outcome was sure to be far more amusing for both of them, regardless of her reaction.

August 1977

"What's that?"

Bella looked up from the letter in her hand to see a very curious Zee peering around the doorway to her study.

"You can come in," she said, with only the slightest emphasis on _you_. She had never kept the door closed before Narcissa came home from Hogwarts; much as she cared about her cousins, and her baby sister in particular, living with her was often exhausting. It was nice to pretend, occasionally, that she was still alone here. (Zee, whom she had known since they were both eleven, was more or less exempt from consideration as 'other people' – her presence was not nearly so disturbing to Bella's sense of solitude as that of Narcissa.)

The other witch took up her usual pose – not quite a _seat_ – on the chaise lounge. She was nominally clothed today, however (wearing a robe which fastened low enough to make it clear she had no blouse or brassiere beneath it, and Bella would be _very_ surprised if she had suddenly decided to invest in knickers). This was a relatively recent development: after a highly amusing encounter which involved a very embarrassed Narcissa and an argument over tea, the Italian had taken to wearing at least a chemise at all times, in deference to the fact that the younger witch _did_ now live in the Cottage as well, and they weren't all nudists and/or entirely oblivious to said nudity.

In point of fact, Bella was not _entirely_ oblivious to said nudity, and she was fairly certain that Zee was more of a nymphomaniac than a nudist (the nudity being a by-product of her near-constant attempts to get Bella into bed), but those points were entirely irrelevant in the argument about whether it was appropriate for Zee to lounge around the Cottage entirely unclad when Narcissa was also likely to be present.

"You didn't answer my question," Zee noted, selecting a book on undetectable poisons from the table beside the chaise and opening it to the marker she had left in it the week before.

"An invitation to audition for a position with the Death Eaters," Bella answered absently. "It seems that they are always 'seeking new talent in the Dark Arts.' I'm trying to figure out how Lord Voldemort discovered my work, let alone that I am Antistita Discordiae."

Zee snatched the letter from her hand, book abandoned on the chaise, before Bella finished her last sentence. She skimmed it over with an expression of delighted astonishment plastered across her features, and giggled on reaching the end of the short missive. "Perhaps he's that Merfyn character you've been flirting with for the past year and a half."

"I haven't been _flirting_ ," Bella objected. "I've been explaining to him why his entire conception of the way the multiverse functions is _wrong_."

"Yes, yes, and what that has to do with time travel. I know. It's adorable. Like a second-year starting fights just to get his attention."

"Don't be ridiculous," the Black witch sniffed dismissively. "I don't fight to flirt, I fight to _win_."

Zee put on her most charming grin. "I can't help it. Ridiculousness is my default state." That was a lie. Zee's 'default state' was cold-hearted, selfish, and more than a little ruthless. She just hid it better than Bella, under a thick layer of seduction and silliness. "And I know flirting when I see it, thanks ever so. Are you honestly telling me you get nothing out of the fact that he _always_ writes back?"

"There's nothing wrong with appreciating a sharp-witted opponent."

The other witch laughed again. "Did I say there was? No. Just that you like him. So. You should go to this meeting; have your audition, or whatever, and try to figure out if Lord Voldemort is your mystery scholar."

"Do you know what the probability of that would be? Hang on, I'll do the arithmancy," Bella snarked.

"I bet it's higher than you think. I mean, he obviously _reads_ your work, at least. And apparently understands it, if this is any indication," she nodded toward the letter in her hand. "So that narrows the field to about… half a dozen, I'd say."

Bella snorted involuntarily. "Just because _you_ don't follow it… there are more than six people in the world who know what I'm talking about, Zee."

The other witch did not look convinced. "I still think you should go. Do something social for once, you know."

"You always think I should go do something social for once. I was at the Wizengamot meeting last month, and I _just_ presided over the Family's Lammas celebrations."

Zee rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. Something _fun_. And don't even dare say that Lammas was fun – I know how you feel about your family and their politics!"

"And yet you think I'll find _auditioning for the Death Eaters_ to be an enjoyable diversion."

The seductress spun Bella's chair away from the desk and settled onto her lap, face to face, her knees on either side of Bella's hips, demanding her full attention. "Admittedly, I can think of several _more_ enjoyable diversions," she smirked, shifting her weight suggestively, "but what's not to like about going out, meeting someone who shares your interest in dark magic and torture, and who is apparently intelligent enough to appreciate your work? Even if you don't care a bit about his politics, I should think that alone would make it worth it."

"Does it not strike you as a bit odd, for my lover to be telling me to go out and meet other people?" The dark-eyed witch asked, mostly rhetorically, her fingers creeping up the other woman's smooth, toned thighs, almost out of habit, sketching trails of runes and geometric patterns on soft skin with short, sharp nails in a way that never failed to make the lover in question shiver in anticipation. Bella grinned, always pleased to get a reaction, especially when it was entirely expected.

"Well, I'm married now: I can't be here for you all the time," 'Mrs. Charleston' smirked.

She was kidding, of course. Nine times out of ten, she was the instigator of situations such as this, regardless of her marital status. Not that Bella _minded_ , precisely, but... she didn't _miss_ the sex when Zee disappeared on her for weeks or months a time in pursuit of her latest conquest. And in any case she already 'wasn't there' for Bella in certain ways, even when she was kneeling on her lap, practically begging to be fucked: there were limits to the sort of games the violet-eyed temptress was willing to entertain in the name of friendship, and they had long since discovered that Bella preferred her pleasures far sharper than Zee could withstand.

She quoted a siren song blithely in response, translating as she went: " _'What agony, to see the one I crave so near and yet beyond my reach; she hears my song and still she clings to land and sky, bound to another who holds her heart safe from the sea-call and my arms.'_ "

Zee giggled, tangling her fingers in Bella's hair as she leaned in for a kiss, the scent of her arousal rising around them. "Someday I'll get you to teach me the songs of the sea," she teased. That seemed rather unlikely. Zee did not have Bella's gift for languages, but it was true that she had enough raw sensuality that she might be able to pull off Siren Song anyway, if she could be convinced to sit still long enough to try. Bella rather doubted she would do so. "But speaking of being bound to another, do you still want to kill two birds with one stone, as it were?"

Bella shrugged, her thoughts immediately diverted from imagining the chaos her lover could wreak with the magical language if she were just a bit more patient. "I haven't had a letter from de Mort in weeks, so it may not be necessary. I'll still do the current Mr. Zabini for you, though, if you like," she offered, one hand migrating to release hardened nipples from the confines of Isabella's robe (such as it was). With Zee perched in her current position, they were at the perfect height for suckling, though Bella preferred to lick at them, then blow across the wet skin, already too-sensitive from her attention, sending shivers down her friend's spine even as she squirmed away.

"Bellaaa, don't _do_ that," Zee whined.

With a challenging smirk, she drew a single fingertip along the crease of her friend's nether lips so lightly as to be almost imperceptible… or, as she had intended, maddeningly tantalizing. (She had been correct: there were no knickers present.)

She grinned at the whimper that escaped the other woman and the involuntary lurch of her hips, as much as at the thought that if _she_ were to take care of that particular 'bird,' it would be with something considerably more fun than an undetectable poison.

Zee considered murder a means to an end: an altogether unexciting chore. Bella, on the other hand, was getting _quite_ excited thinking about the prospect, and wondering how long she might be able to keep dear Daniel alive and conscious to play with. At _least_ three days, she thought. More if she only used muggle toys on him, and healed him with magic.

The impatient minx seemed to realize that she was less than entirely focused on the task at hand. She wandlessly unbuttoned Bella's robes, slipping long, supple fingers into her drawers, seeking verification that the Black witch was interested in her ministrations, despite her casual façade. She smirked when she found it. "I couldn't care less one way or the other, but it seems _you_ would like that very much. You know, this is why you should think about actually meeting with the Dark Lord. I bet the two of you would get on splendidly." She was wearing an expression that suggested her renewed attempts to get Bella out of the Cottage more often were some sort of revenge for her own teasing. "You know, I'm _sure_ he'd help you murder whomever you liked, _however_ you liked, if –"

Bella cut off that train of thought before it became too distracting. She was not going to become a Death Eater, no matter how much easier it might make acquiring suitable subjects for experimentation (and the satisfaction of desires too dark for Zee to accommodate). "Have I told you lately that you talk too much?"

Zee giggled. "Not _today_ , n- _oh!_ " This time, she cut herself off, instantly distracted as Bella plunged two fingers into her, massaging her clit with her thumb. The ' _oh_ ' of surprise was followed almost immediately by a moan of pleasure. "Oooh, Bella – more."

Bella shook her head. Had she not been clear on the talking thing? She smirked at her silent joke as she silenced the violet-eyed brunette more thoroughly with a kiss, and reclaimed her hand to lift the shorter witch with her as she moved to the chaise. The mechanics of her desk chair were simply not suitable for _more_.


End file.
